


Memento

by Cephy



Category: Last Remnant
Genre: Grief, M/M, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-04-26
Updated: 2010-04-26
Packaged: 2017-10-10 16:44:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 932
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/101905
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cephy/pseuds/Cephy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the events at game's end, David finds something that makes him remember.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Memento

**Author's Note:**

  * For [amei](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=amei).



> Written to accompany a lovely piece of artwork by amei.

There was a small pile on the corner of the desk, placed there when he had finally allowed his cleaning staff to gather it all into one place. Another pile in a basket beside the desk, cleared out from the room Rush had used when he first arrived. Rush's things, such as they were-- he hadn't accumulated very much, whether because that was his nature or he simply hadn't had the time. It was little more than a jumbled collection of extra clothing, odds and ends picked up on travels, things that could be bought at any vendor's stall the world over.

David still couldn't bring himself to touch any of it for weeks.

Eventually, though, he found himself drifting toward that pile, in a rare moment of quiet between the endless meetings and audiences and tasks. He shook out the clothing and folded it, found a bag for the small collection of components so he could deliver them to the castle armorer. Reflected on the bits of memorabilia and found himself smiling as he remembered their origins, albeit rather sadly.

It was progress, he told himself. The ache of loss was already less cutting, and would continue to lessen over time. He could live through this, after all.

Underneath all the rest, caught against a loose patch in the basket's weave, he found a visistone case. He picked it up, curious. He didn't remember Rush receiving any messages while he'd been in Athlum. It could have been something picked up in their travels, of course, interesting enough to keep or simply forgotten over time. David hesitated a moment longer, debating with himself, then gave in to curiousity and activated it.

He was completely unprepared to see Rush himself appear. Sitting on something-- their bed?-- and grinning his best nervous-but-too-excited-to-care smile. "You did not," the phantom Rush said, "tell me you had a visistone recorder."

The impact of the unexpected voice sent David reeling a step, his back hitting the wall. It was a near-physical shock, the familiarity of that sound, when he had never thought to hear it again.

"Seriously, Dave, we could have had so much fun with this. Still, I guess this way I can surprise you."

And with no further warning than that the phantom Rush straightened in place, arched his back and slowly peeled off his shirts. His hair was mussed when he pulled his head free from the last, and he shook it back as he gave David-- gave the _recorder_ a wide smile. David slowly slid down the wall, all the strength drained from him, unable to look away even though the sight _hurt_, a deep ache that made his throat close and his shoulders curl in. But he could no more go over and deactivate the stone that he could have stopped his own breath.

And so David only watched as Rush pulled loose his belt, unfastened his trousers, left it all in place just enough to _mostly_ hide his actions when he dipped a hand inside and curled it around himself. David's body responded automatically to the curve of Rush's lips as they fell open on a moan, to the flex of his stomach as he pushed his hips forward-- every part of David's body was attuned to those little signs, and it knew what his own responses should be. But something held him frozen there, eyes burning wide from the need to blink, not daring even the pleasant distraction of his own hand.

He could tell the exact moment when Rush forgot he had an audience, forgot the _why_ of what he was doing and lost himself to feeling-- the last sheepish edge to his smile vanished and he was shameless and beautiful, running hands all over himself, revelling in his pleasure. His trousers were long gone at that point, baring pale skin and sleek limbs to David's eyes, a faint sheen of skin glittering in some lost light.

"Oh," Rush's image breathed after he was done. And he looked over at David-- at the recorder, but by some chance his eyes fell to just the right point-- and smiled, heavy-lidded and content and loving. "Dave," he murmured.

It was enough to make David scramble forward in some irrational desperation when the recording suddenly cut off-- whether he meant to restart it, keep it running in perpetuity so that voice would never fall silent, or to break the stone in half so he would never have to face it again, he could not have said. In the end he did neither, just picked up the case in trembling fingers and flipped the catch to lock it. He wrapped it in the first thing to hand-- one of Rush's shirts, fittingly enough-- and buried it in the back corner of the very bottom of the desk. Someday, no doubt, he would be happy to have such a reminder of his beloved friend, but for the moment-- it was too much, too soon.

He leaned heavily on the desk, head hanging down, still shaking, and let the weight of loss bow him.

A knock sounded at the door some time later. "Lord David?"

"A moment," he called, gratified to hear his voice reasonably steady. He straightened on a deep breath, and made himself take another. He moved to his mirror when he felt steady enough to move at all, and stood there, watching himself closely. Only when he could not see any trace of grief lingering in his expression, only then did he smooth down his clothes and leave to tend to his city.


End file.
